


I Want It

by MusicLover19



Series: One-Shots [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, Hallucinations, M/M, References to Suicide, Stiles Needs a Hug, Stiles has emotional pain, no one dies, only talked about, talk of mates, this is really feels heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9154567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicLover19/pseuds/MusicLover19
Summary: A run-in with a witch leaves Stiles with another hallucination as well as some bad memories. Hiding out in an unknown location, Stiles is found and cared for by someone he thought would be happy to hurt him further.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is depressing. I remembered Stiles' hallucination and I wanted other people to feel my pain, so this happened. It ended happier though? I think.

Stiles stood, surrounded by the pack. The witch finally subdued, Scott had managed to push her to the ground as soon as she had uttered the Latin words. Stiles took a moment to breathe, thankful that, for once, things seemed to be going positively. No one had been hurt, no one had been possessed, and no one had died.

“You!” Stiles heard his father shout from behind him.

He turned quickly, an explanation ready. It died before he had even managed to open his mouth. The image before him was so familiar, it was one that he would never forget. His dad looked younger, swaying where he stood as he held tight to the bottle of whisky. Stiles knew, he _knew_ that it couldn’t be real. It had to be another hallucination, like the one that happened at Lydia’s party. It didn’t stop his heart racing, or his mouth drying as he stared.

He could feel the pack all turn to him, he could feel the weight of their eyes. Taking a look, he saw nothing, no emotion shown on any of their faces.

“It's you! You know, every day I saw her lying that hospital slowly dying... I thought, ‘ _How the hell am I supposed to raise this stupid kid on my own? This hyperactive little bastard who keeps ruining my life?_ ’.”

Just like before, the words cut right through the calm façade he showed. It was every single one of his fears, his father had said many times that Scott acted like a better son than him. He knew that he caused his dad so much pain and trouble. Every single thing he did seemed to make things worse, the things he said, his actions, they all seemed to hurt his father in some way.

“It's all you. It's you, _Stiles_. You killed your mother. You hear me?”

Stiles visible flinched back, unable to help it. He could hear his mother’s voice, ‘ _He’s trying to hurt me. He’s trying to kill me! You don’t see the way he looks at me, he’s trying to kill me._ ’. Stiles took a step back, wanting to run but knowing that the pack had him surrounded. He couldn’t look up and meet their horrified faces. Not once they knew what he had done.

“You killed her,” his dad continued. “And now you're killing me.”

Just like the hallucination at Lydia’s, his dad then threw the bottle of whisky he was holding. Stiles moved with practiced ease to dodge the projectile, his arm coming up to cover his face in case he didn’t make it.

“Stiles!” Scott’s voice was loud, warm hands touching him gently, one pulling his arm away from his face. “Are you ok?”

Stiles looked around rapidly.

Nothing had changed from before.

His father wasn’t present. The witch was on the floor, Liam now holding her down as Scott stood in front of Stiles. The small clearing held no one but the pack and the lone witch. It was in his head. It was not real.

“Stiles,” Scott repeated, cradling Stiles’ cheek with his hand, prompting the boy to meet his gaze.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said automatically. He knew it was a lie. He could tell that everything about him contradicted what he said. He knew that he was still rapidly looking around the clearing, he could hear his own heart in his ears and he could feel the frantic breaths that he sucked in.

"Breathe," Scott advised.

"I just - I need space," Stiles forced out, pushing Scott's hand away from him and stepped away. "Don't!" he hissed when Scott moved to stop him. "Just - I'll be fine," he stressed.

No one stopped him when he left. He could feel them watching, but not a single person made an attempt to halt his escape. They averted their eyes when Stiles glanced around and he could feel his skin crawl because it was as if they _knew_ what he had just seen. It was like they had heard what his father had said before throwing the bottle.

Stiles couldn't stop the quickening of his breath. He _knew_  that they could still hear him. They could hear his heart rate, they could hear his stumbles as he made his way through the woods.

By the time he made his way back to where the pack had parked the cars, his hands were covered with scratches, some still oozing blood around the mud. Stiles had lost count of how many times he had fallen, it was around the time that he had given up on wiping away the tears that threatened to fall. He felt helpless. Lost. Unwanted. _Unneeded_.

Stiles knew he didn't have a place in the pack. Not surrounded by supernatural creatures. There was no room for a human that couldn't even face one stupid fear. He would only make more people die. He had almost killed several members of the pack, he _had_ killed Allison. 

_That_  stunt had cost him a lot. His relationships were strained. His father was working almost constantly. His father was drinking _again_. Sure, Stiles knew that it wasn't really _him._  It didn't stop the fact that he enjoyed it. He enjoyed the power, the feeling of being unstoppable. He missed feeling strong, in its absence, his weakness felt amplified. He could do _nothing_  to help. Even when the witch had come forward, Stiles had been on the sidelines, a member of the pack watching him to keep him safe.

It was times like this that Stiles sunk deeper into whatever hole he tried his hardest to stay from. He could feel it creeping over him, it was arriving faster than normal. Typically, Stiles could feel it for a day or two before it truly hit, today, after what he had seen, it came crashing.

Stiles hated it, he hated how he felt. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to be away from the worried looks of the pack. He wanted to make them stop. He wanted everything to stop. 

One thing Stiles did not understand, especially in this mood, was why the pack still bothered to look out for him. It made no sense. Part of Stiles wished for them to leave him, forget that he was a squishy human, that way, when something _unfortunate_ happened, it wouldn't be _his_ fault. He wouldn't consider doing something himself because the likelihood of him walking away from the next Big Bad was so low that he wouldn't need to.

Stiles ran his bloody hands down his jeans, taking the chance to double check which pocket his keys were in, as well as trying to get the most of the dirt from his hands. He took a second to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, thankful that he could see a bit clearer.

Stiles knew he shouldn't drive, not when he was in this state. Not when the temptation to be reckless was too strong. He couldn't stay. He wouldn't let the pack find him like this, he wouldn't worry them anymore. They were already too careful around him. Stiles had already decided, for the exact reason as before, that he couldn't go home. He refused to face his father so soon after what he saw, and he knew that he would only feel worse if he arrived home to an empty house.

Instead, Stiles climbed into his jeep, trying not to let himself dwell too much of his thoughts as he started the jeep. He was thankful for the cover of the darkness, that way his slow driving did not attract too much attention. He could force himself to be careful without getting concerned looks. The chance of any other deputies would be low, _especially with the recent casualties at Stiles' hands._

The drive took longer than it normally would, yet the roads were empty. Stiles didn't know where he was heading until he pulled into the empty lot, shaking his head at his own stupidity. No one would know where he was, he had gotten the address early on, vowing to keep it secret. That vow grew stronger when Peter had disappeared, Stiles still didn't know what had happened to the wolf.

He had been here only once before. It was a month into Peter's disappearance, Stiles had told himself he wasn't concerned, he was merely making sure the man was still breathing. It hadn't been difficult to pick the lock, just like now. There were no differences between then and now.

Stiles stood in the doorway, the fluffy carpet still calling to him as he toed his shoes off, _it was only polite._ It still felt soft. Stiles flipped the switch, thanking whatever deity available that the electricity still worked as he blinked rapidly to the change of light. The few picture frames carried dust, just as before. Stiles let his hand trail across the wallpaper, making his way towards the living room. 

Stiles had never seen Peter in his home, yet it was easy to imagine. He could see Peter sat on the black leather couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table as he flipped through one of the countless books that laid around the room. Stiles' feet took him to the free spot on the couch, _Peter sat here_. It was the only free space, several books on the seat next to it. There was even a glass left on the coffee table.

Stiles wondered what had happened. Sure, he didn't know Peter that well, but he doubted that the man would have been happy to leave the room in such a state. During their research sessions, Peter had been the one to insist on keeping the space organised. It sparked a hint of nostalgia, one that Stiles didn't want to admit, even to himself, he _missed_  Peter.

Stiles shook his head, he backed away, wanting to put more space between himself and the _image_  of Peter.

Stiles screamed when something grabbed him.

A hand had curled around his arm, holding tight. It made Stiles freeze once he had let out the sound of terror. Acting on instinct, Stiles bared his neck, closed his eyes and waited. He pleaded for it to be quick. At least he wouldn't cause _anyone_ any more pain.

"What are you doing here?"

_Peter._

His voice was so much more than Stiles remembered. It was husky, as if he hadn't spoken in a while. There was power in his tone, so much that it made Stiles want to bask in it. He felt the growl wash over him and for a second, Stiles truly thought he would be dead by morning.

"I am not going to ask again; what. Are. You. Doing. Here?"

Stiles didn't think. His mind was focused solely on Peter.

"If - If the offer still stands…" Stiles said, not even knowing himself, where he was going. "I want the bite. I can find you an Alpha... just... I want the bite."

"Oh darling…" Peter said softer, the growl of his tone gone. Peter loosened his hold on Stiles' arm, running his hand down to Stiles' wrist before pulling it up. "What have they done to you?"

Stiles kept his eyes closed, fighting back the shiver at Peter's tone. He sounded like he actually _cared_. Stiles knew it wasn't real. He knew it was an act. Peter never cared about anyone.

"It was more about what I have done," Stiles said bitterly, wanting to push his thoughts away. He finally opened his eyes, his breath catching when he caught sight of _Peter_. The man had barely changed. It was as if no time had passed.

"You know that _this_  bite is different," Peter pointed out knowingly. "It always was different."

Stiles lifted his head stubbornly. He didn't need Peter to do this.

"What has caused you to want _this_?" Peter purred, pulling Stiles' wrist closer to his mouth. "When I offered _this,_ I was not sane. You must know what it risks."

"Do it," Stiles forced out. He kept his gaze on Peter's. "I want it."

The tears almost started again when Peter let go of him. It took all of his self-respect not to latch back onto the man.

"What is it you want?" Peter asked, his voice calm, back to a normal volume.

"This," Stiles stressed.

"Say it," Peter prompted, stepping forward until Stiles backed up and had his back against the wall.

"Dude," Stiles said in protest.

"Tell me," Peter said, his hands resting on the wall as he caged Stiles in. "Otherwise I refuse on that aspect alone."

"I want you to bite me," Stiles said.

"Where?" Peter asked, leaning closer and smirking when Stiles bared his throat to him.

"My - my wrist," Stiles stuttered.

Peter hummed softly.

"I believe I told you once before that deception has a distinct scent," Peter mused. "You reek of it," he whispered.

"I want it all to be over," Stiles admitted, his words barely audible. He regretted them as soon as they left. He hated himself for missing Peter's warmth as he stepped back.

"You think that would work?" Peter asked, his tone blank.

"I know what it means," Stiles said, his voice growing strong as more words came. "A bite on the wrist symbolises the intent to mate. If the two aren't compatible, the bitten one suffers."

"You want to suffer?" Peter asked, his voice questioning as he observed Stiles. He could smell the boy's blood, it was the first thing he had smelt in the apartment. He could also smell the traces of the boy's tears.

"I deserve it," Stiles said firmly, knowing it to be true.

"What makes you so sure that we wouldn't be compatible?" Peter questioned curiously.

"Don't," Stiles said weakly, his eyes falling closed again. "If you don't - there _are_ other options," Stiles said, mainly to himself rather than Peter.

"For you to suffer?" Peter clarified.

"For me to die," Stiles corrected.

The words had barely left his mouth before he was pushed back against the wall. Peter growled, low in his throat as his eyes shone blue. Stiles flinched back automatically.

"What would you have done if I were not here?" Peter asked, his voice still rumbling with his growl. "No one knows where I live. Did you plan on killing yourself and having them think you disappeared?" as Peter continued, his voice grew louder and louder. "Would I have returned to find your dead body?"

Stiles stayed silent. He had not planned such a thing. He had not even planned coming here. He just wanted to be alone.

Peter stared at Stiles for a second, taking in everything possible. The boy looked exhausted. The clothes hung off his frame, not that he had visibly lost too much weight, but more that Stiles had taken less care about his appearance, letting himself be drowned in oversized clothes. There was mud spread almost all over him, traces of it on his cheeks, where he had undoubtedly rubbed at his eyes. His eyes were red, faint tear tracks still evident to Peter's eyes.

Peter stepped back, pulling Stiles' hands up to inspect. Just as he thought, they were covered in mud, the mud mixing in with the blood that he had lost. _That_  was why Peter didn't realise it was Stiles, the boy's blood had been mixed in with earth.

"What happened?" Peter was shocked at the gentleness of his own voice as he ran his thumbs over Stiles' palms, leeching some of the faint pain that was present.

"I fell," Stiles said softly, almost hesitant.

"Why?"

"We - there was a witch," Stiles explained. "She must have done something. I needed some space. I fell going back to my jeep."

"Where was the pack?" Peter asked, making an effort to stop himself from growling again.

"I left them behind," Stiles said slowly. "It doesn't matter anyway," he added, looking down at his own hands and how small they felt in Peter's. "They shouldn't be babysitting me."

"Protecting you is different," Peter argued softly. He knew that Stiles wouldn't listen when the boy looked away. "Come on," Peter said, taking another step back and pulling Stiles forward, "we need to deal with these if you don't want them to get infected."

"It doesn't matter," Stiles said as he felt his stomach flip. It was strange to have someone say something so simple. The fact that Peter seemed invested in keeping Stiles healthy was... conflicting. Stiles liked it, he wanted to bask in the care the man was producing. Yet, he also wanted to scream, he wanted to fight, to pull away and run. In the end, Peter was holding his hands so gently that Stiles couldn't help but follow the man's wishes, anything to keep him close.

Neither spoke when Peter led them to the bathroom nor when he pulled out a first aid kit. Stiles felt his lips quirk when Peter had pulled out a pack of wet wipes, but the urge to make a sarcastic quip was nowhere to be seen. Stiles watched as Peter wiped away the worst of the dirt, before taking his time to cleanse each scrape on his skin.

When Peter had finished his right hand, Stiles began to fidget. He felt uncomfortable. He had not expected this from anyone, let alone _Peter_. He didn't understand it. 

Stiles froze when Peter's hand softly pressed on his knee, stilling his jiggling leg. He flushed, before the words from earlier came back to him. His father's harsh tone as he hissed; " _This hyperactive little bastard who keeps ruining my life_."

"Whatever you are thinking, stop," Peter said calmly. He had noticed the sudden stillness along with the sour scent that had erupted from the boy. "I merely wanted to finish this without spilling anything." He tightened his hold as Stiles attempted to pull his hand away. "Let me finish," Peter ordered.

"I - you don't have to," Stiles argued, his stomach feeling like lead. "It's ok, I can do it. You can - _shit,_ I shouldn't even be here. Let - let me go!"

Peter had wrapped his arms around Stiles when the boy had stood. He smelt the telltale salt that indicated that tears were, once again, making their way down the boy's cheeks as he struggled to leave Peter's grip.

"Stiles," Peter murmured into his ear, aiming for a reassuring tone. "If I didn't want you here then you wouldn't still be here," he pointed out. "Now, let me finish."

Stiles shook his head, still struggling fruitlessly to remove Peter's arms. In one final desperate attempt, Stiles pulled, digging his blunt nails into Peter's arm as he did so. He heard Peter's sigh. He felt himself be spun around before an arm once again wrapped around him to hold him in place. Peter finished cleaning Stiles' hand, one handed as the boy wept in his arm.

Stiles wanted to curse. He wanted to scream. He wanted Peter to leave him alone. He couldn't articulate a single one of those wants as the tears fell. His father's words in his mind as well as his mother's pleas for _someone_ to listen to her. He felt helpless. He felt like a monster. His mother's words drowned out the words of his father, what if Stiles _had_ managed to do something to finally kill her? She had been so sure that he was trying to. There was clearly something wrong with him for the possession to have worked. He had enjoyed being powerful, being strong enough, being able to kill those that opposed him.

" _Please_."

Stiles managed that one word as Peter moved them from the bathroom. Peter didn't know just what he wanted, and he was sure that he didn't want to know, not with how much anguish Stiles was in. Physical pain was easy, Peter could take that and he would do so without a second thought for Stiles. Emotional pain was so much harder, there was no quick fix. You couldn't pull emotional pain from a person, it was something that _they_ had to work through. In a sense, Peter was glad he was not around to help Laura and Derek after the fire. Seeing others like this, people he cared about, always left him feeling helpless. There was nothing he could do, he felt helpless to watch them suffer and only be able to hold them through what they battled.

Peter laid Stiles down on the bed, leaving the boy there as he turned the lights off. Stiles had stopped trying to escape, having accepted that he was going to stay, or having fallen so far into his own emotional distress that he was unaware of what was happening around him.

Stiles' sobs had quietened when Peter returned. The boy laid with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling as Peter climbed on the bed next to him.

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispered, his voice hoarse.

Peter didn't respond, he knew that saying there was nothing to apologise for would go unheard. Instead, he pulled Stiles into his arms and let the boy snuggle closer to him. As helpless as it made him feel, Peter vowed to be there for Stiles. No matter how much he protested. Just as he promised to ask Stiles about the bite at a later stage, one where he was thinking more rationally. 

Peter had no doubts in his mind that Stiles was  _his_. Just as he was Stiles.  _That_ is why he had offered him the bite. Even partially insane, Peter  _knew_. Peter knew, and now he would do his best to help Stiles.


End file.
